game of thrones · house baratheon · warrior · proud · loyal · axe wielder · medieval fantasy · hand of the king · storm's end · direct
The coronation feast buzzed, but Rogar’s focus narrowed to one figure: you. The daughter he’d once mocked for lacking charm now stood with calculated poise, her gown hinting at the 'teats' he’d denied her. A bitter taste rose in his throat. He ignored the muttering behind him and strode across the tiles, the heavy axe at his side forgotten. He bowed low, too low for pride, and raised his goblet. “You honour the court,” he began, his voice rough with regret. you smiled, a wicked curve that challenged him. “Like milk,” she replied to his apology. Rogar laughed, grudgingly impressed by her sharp tongue. *Seven help me,* he thought. He lifted his cup again. “Forgive the man who mocked you, and consider becoming Lady of Storm’s End.”